Sunday, November 25, 2012

Sunday Morning Poetry

One Evening in a Cafe

When thoughts don't take you farand you sit silentTremulousstaring at the veins in your hands;when the chariot of your imaginationwon't carry you to passageways lit with glimmers of insightand you sit silentTremulousgazing at the smoke encircling your wrist:when you do not answer the woman who greets youas she lets her shawl fallinto the vacuum of the eveningand you sit silentTremulousstaring at the fateful events written in your coffee grounds;when the new émigrés stroll byarm-in-arm with their adorned ladieschattering on about how time fliesand you sit silentTremulousgazing at the mysterious wood of the table;when you don't keep anyone's companyand can remember nothing of the warbut a horseshoeor bullet holes in a curtain;when, one evening in a caféfaces pass before you like a copper fogand you hear cymbals clashing in a distant desertor walls crashing into hypothetical canals;when, one evening in a caféthat blind singer's albumstarts to play,and everyone suddenly sighs;then you rise and walkTo where the hatchetleans against the tree.